Costumes
by Hutchie
Summary: Starsky is angry with Hutch and acting strange.  Halloween related.   Angst warning for first half


_Belatedly Halloween related_

Costumes

"You can dress as a runner," said Starsky. The door slammed as he walked away from Hutch. Hutch's head shot up and he blinked in shock. He opened the door and leaned in the doorway, and crossed his arms.

"What's that supposed to mean, Starsk?" he said, trying to sound level-headed, calm and not at all offended.

"Oh, you know." Starsky spoke airily, his words punctuated by the sound of his cane as he swung himself along in the kitchen, the staccato thump each time sounding like emphasis to his words. "Wear those tiny shorts of yours, you know. Pretend you still care about taking care of your body. Make believe you're still the stud of the precinct, maybe, jammed into them—if they still fit." When he turned to glance at Hutch, his eyes were cold, and he was almost sneering. "When's the last time you jogged, really? Or ate anything healthy?"

He yanked open the fridge and peered theatrically inside. The beer bottles clinked loudly in the door when he yanked. "Hmm."

Hutch stared at him, and swallowed. He spread one hand out. "Starsk, I hardly think you need to critique my diet and exercise. Yeah, maybe I haven't been—"

"That's right, you haven't been. Think you'll have your health forever? You just like shoving it in my face, that you can do whatever you want and still function, huh?" Starsky, surprisingly fast on his cane, swung around and snarled into Hutch's face. Starsky had to look up, because he was bent over, probably in pain.

Hutch, blinking, drew back, shocked by the rage in Starsky's expression. He was intimidated by this man with a cane, who looked like his best friend but wasn't acting like him at all, at all.

"Starsk," he tried again, almost pleading, holding his hands up, as though to surrender.

"'Starsk,'" mocked Starsky in a high voice. "'Oh Starsk-yyy.' Where were you when the bullets when flying, huh? Blocked by _my cah_, because all you could do was duck for cover!"

Hutch stood speechless, unable to even breathe. Sucker punched. How could Starsky say…the thing he'd wondered so many times himself?

He turned away, before Starsky could see the quick dampness springing to his eyes. He opened the fridge and pretended to contemplate getting something. Then he went ahead and grabbed a bottle anyway. Starsky would leave him alone, now, surely...

But he didn't. He trailed Hutch into the living room, the cane sounding ominous, even on the carpet, like someone following in a horror movie, perhaps with a knife.

"Not gonna answer me, huh? Just sit there an' drink yourself into a coma. Comas are no fun, lemmee tell ya. You can still hurt, ya know. Sometimes ya even know when people are there—or not there. You sure weren't, much."

"I visited as often as I could." Hutch almost choked on the words, sounding hurt and wobbly, and starting to sound enraged. "I had to get the guys who did that to you, you know."

"Well, that was a real comfort to me, let me tell ya." Starsky's voice dripped with sarcasm. He glared at the bottle in Hutch's hand. "You're on your way to real trouble, buddy, if you can't lay off the booze."

"Starsky!" Hutch slammed the bottle down on the side table; it sloshed. His face felt hot, and he glared at Starsky. "Shut up!"

Starsky, instead of looking remorseful, sketched a cold, sarcastic bow and waved one hand out. "Yes, your majestry!" He got the last word wrong, and stumbled a little as he righted himself, gripping his cane so hard his knuckles whitened.

Hutch stared at him, felt his mouth gone dry. "Starsk, are you—are you drunk or something?"

"I'm not drunk. You're the drunk. That's what you should dress as for Halloween, Hutch. A drunk! Wouldn't have to change much. Wear a ratty shirt, wrap a big ol' bottle in a paper bag, an' you're good to go." He leaned forward, and his eyes snapped. "Just remember to tell them you're dressed up as that, it's not the real you—tell 'em, 'cuz they might not guess."

"David Michael Starsky!" Hutch jumped up and started towards him, glowering. "You take that back."

Okay, so he'd had a few extra beers lately. It was hard to unwind without it sometimes, since Starsky had been shot. He got tight inside, and needed something to loosen him up. Maybe he should cut back. But Starsky didn't have to make a big thing about it. Especially not in such an ugly way.

He stood glaring at Starsky, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Starsky cocked his head slightly, his chin jutting, and he grinned a little grin. It was not a normal, sweet Starsky grin—or a fierce Starsky grin, or any kind of Starsky grin. This was the grin of a man taking you down with him. "Go ahead. Hit me," he dared.

Instead, Hutch turned away. "What's wrong with you? Just go home." His voice shook, composure gone. Starsky shouldn't do this to him, not when they couldn't have a fair fight.

He brushed by his injured friend. Long strides took him to the kitchen again, intending to get the door for Starsky, pointedly. The sound of the cane followed him. "Or maybe you could dress as a weasel, an' go around stealin' everybody's girlfriends," he said in a cheerful, conversational tone.

The words bit into Hutch, deeper than anything he could remember Starsky ever saying to him before, like a stab of cold, an icicle applied, spearing straight through his guts. He bit his lip. There would be no hiding his tears this time if Starsky glimpsed his face. He kept his head down, afraid of what he'd say or do, and yanked the door open, waited for Starsky to go.

Starsky kept quiet now. He stumped towards the door without a word. Hutch looked up suddenly, giving Starsky one quick, startled glance, wondering if he regretted anything he'd so cruelly said.

Starsky caught his eye, and tilted his head slightly, cast him a sneer. The cold smile made Hutch want to shudder. _Stop it, Starsky!_ "Well?" Hutch held the door.

Starsky's lip curled a little. "Kickin' me out? Don't worry, I'm goin'. I'm goin,'" he growled, and brushed past Hutch and out the door, swinging along gamely, leaning heavily on his crutch.

Hutch shut the door rather more loudly than it required, and leaned back against it. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the clock on the wall. Its black numbers, against the white face, blurred and then unblurred, as he blinked, and his eyes unfilmed. He put his chin down on his chest, and tightened his arms around his chest. He wanted the rest of his beer. He wanted Starsky to come back and say he hadn't meant a word of it.

But Starsky didn't return.

#

The phone.

It finally stopped ringing when he picked it up and said 'hello.' He'd fallen asleep on the couch, and now his head hurt.

"Hutchinson." Hutch winced at the sharp sound of Dobey's voice. "Your partner's in the hospital. Apparently he ran into a fireplug. Ahem. He's all right, don't panic. He's alive…."

The phone clattered down and Hutch raced towards the door. He had to come back for his shoes, and then his keys. Starsky. Starsky, in an accident, and Hutch had sent him away….

#

He got there and looked around wildly, realizing for the first time that he must look a fright, like the drunk Starsky had told him to dress as.

The nurse must've been told to look for him. She waved him tiredly through. "Room 86."

"Thank you." He hurried down the hall.

Starsky was sitting up in bed, eating Jell-O, a big frown on his face, looking discontented and grumpy. His one leg was propped up on a pillow, and he had a butterfly Band-Aid over his eyebrow.

He took one look at Hutch and leaned forward, his face breaking into a broad smile. He lowered his Jell-O. "Hutch! Where have you been?"

"What happened?" demanded Hutch. "Were you driving like a nut again?" It came out fiercer than he meant it to. He searched Starsky head to toe with his gaze. "Looks like you hurt your foot."

"Huh? No, just a sprain. Don't be mad, Hutch. I don't remember what I was doing, but I couldn't have been going fast. I just dented the bumper."

Hutch stopped and looked at him. "You can't remember…?"

Starsky shook his head, looking worried. "I can't remember anything about yesterday evening, except taking my pills."

"Taking your—" Hutch sat down, and felt the air whoosh out of him, and some of the pain. "Your medicine. Starsk. Has the doctor changed some of your medicine?"

"Yeah, now you mention it. New stuff for pain—told me it might have fewer side effects."

"Or more," muttered Hutch.

"What's that, Hutch? Hey, are you here to bust me out or aren't ya? I told all the nurses to watch out for ya—"

Hutch winced.

"—because they wouldn't be able to hold me here once you arrived!" He grinned: a real Starsky grin.

Hutch swallowed; his Adam's apple bobbed. "When the doctors say you can go, I'll break you out, and not before. And I think we need to have a word to your doctor about those painkillers…"

"Huh?" Starsky blinked at him.

Hutch smiled. "Don't worry about it, Starsk."

#

"Hutch."

"Hm?" He looked up. "More ice?"

Starsky shifted his ankle on the icepack he already had. "Nope, good."

Hutch regarded him, spread out in luxury on his couch, ensconced with food and water close at hand, tissues, a blanket, an extra shirt, the TV guide— "What do you need, then?" Hutch raised his hands and let them drop to his sides, perplexed and not a little weary with tending the invalid. Starsky was, for once, enjoying being laid up, and had been sending Hutch off to get first Chinese takeout, and then pizza, confident of having his every whim obeyed.

"Oh, nothing. That is—I don't _need_ anything," said Starsky hastily, in response to the dark look Hutch gave him. "I just wondered…what are you going to dress up for, for Halloween?" He tilted his head and gave Hutch a big, cheerful smile designed to draw him out.

Hutch swallowed. He took a deep, jagged breath. "Please don't ask me that again."

Starsky stared at him, and blinked. "What? Why not, Hutch?"

"Just—just don't."

Part 2

"What do you think?" Hutch smiled nervously and spread his arms, feeling his brow wrinkle.

"Hm." The recovered invalid stood, leaning rakishly on his cane. His eyes snapped good humor. He'd had no more cruel moments, since Hutch talked to the doctor, and his new pain pills had been hastily changed. Starsky tilted his head and regarded Hutch's outfit, as if trying hard to be critical—and failing. He burst into a big grin. "I love it, Hutch! It's perfect!"

Hutch pushed back his cowboy hat and smiled nervously, adjusting the rope coiled around his shoulder. He also wore a vest and flannel shirt, comfortably worn jeans, and cowboy boots.

"You're great as a cowboy!" Starsky beamed. "You're delicious!"

"'Delicious.' Well, I wouldn't go that far." Hutch gave an embarrassed smile. "You look nice, though." He gestured to Starsky's outfit, the pirate costume he wore, the toy hat tilted at a rakish angle on his curls, the white shirt, the ragged black pants, the boots, the patch over his one eye, the plastic sword strapped at his side, and the stuffed parrot toy hooked precariously onto his shoulder. He leaned heavily on his cane, but he looked happy—and very piratical.

"Care to help a pirate down the stairs?"

"Of course." Hutch took his arm, and supported him as they made their way downstairs to the car—Starsky's, now repaired.

"You know you could've gone as almost anything and looked good," said Starsky. He handed Hutch the keys, and with one tilt of his eyebrows, let his request be made known, that Hutch drive today.

Hutch smiled self-consciously, and went to the driver's side. "I don't think so, Starsk, but thanks for saying so."

"'Starsk.'" Starsky said the name thoughtfully.

Hutch jerked a little, and turned a worried face on him. "What?"

"I was just thinking… I can't seem to remember what, exactly. But I like it when you say my name, you know. 'Starsk.' Nobody else calls me that. It's kinda special." He turned a smile on Hutch.

Hutch swallowed the lump in his throat, and started the car.

"Starsky." He spoke over the noise of the engine. "Do you think I drink t-too much?"

"What's this?" Starsky stopped drumming his fingers and looked at Hutch. He blinked. "Why do you say that?"

"I just wondered—if you thought I drank too much."

"Aw, sometimes, Hutch—sometimes." A warm hand on Hutch's shoulder, squeezed. "But part of it's probably because I can't drink now, with my meds, so it seems like a lot to me. That doesn't mean you really do—and if you're worried about it, just cut back. If you can't cut back, that's when we have a problem."

Hutch nodded. He'd do that. He'd cut back. And if he did have a problem—well, they'd deal with that. Starsky had helped him off the effects of a fix, for pity's sake. Starsky wouldn't give up on Hutch if he did have this kind of trouble.

"And do you—do you blame me for not getting shot, when you did?"

Starsky looked at him like he was insane. "Hutch, why would I want you to get hurt, too? Who'd look after me, for one thing?" He tried to smile, but he looked upset with the very idea.

He couldn't have meant it, then, not really, with his face looking like that….

Hutch swallowed. "And… how about… about Kira? Have you forgiven me about her?" He was afraid to look at Starsky, but he had to, to see if he told the truth.

Starsky blinked, sobering and looking sad at her name. "You know I have, Hutch. I don't know why you'd bring it up again." He spoke quietly. "You know I forgave you…."

"Well," said Hutch, "if you change your mind, let me know, would you? And we'll work on it. Just—don't keep secrets, all right?"

"Hutch." Starsky gave him a reprimanding look. "I think we both know—you're the one keeping secrets."

Hutch did his best to look innocent and clueless. He kept his eyes dutifully on the road.

"Ever since I crushed my bumper, remember?"

"Is that the technical term?" said Hutch. "'Crushed my bumper?' I thought the doctor said something about a light contusion and bruising, and of course, that ankle when you tried to walk away from the car."

Starsky gave him a look. "You know what I'm talkin' about, Hutch. Ever since then. You've been—kinda gun-shy around me. Real eager to please, but also—kinda—well, hurt. Quiet."

Hutch swallowed. "I haven't meant to be, Starsk. Sorry."

Starsky let out a frustrated sigh. "I don't want you to be sorry! I want you to tell me what I did." He ticked off fingers. "One, I can't remember stuff from that evening. Two, you're—acting squirrelly. Three—well, what else does it add up to? I musta said or did something, on that medicine you made the doctor change right away. And you haven't said what, so four, it has to be somethin' pretty bad. I've been waiting for you to tell me, but you haven't. Now I'm guessing—something about drinking, and Kira, and me getting shot?"

"You had some ugly things to say," acknowledged Hutch. "But you didn't mean it. It was the medicine."

"Hutch. What did I say? Why don't you tell me so I can apologize right? You know I don't want you hurting because of something I don't even remember saying."

"But you already…you already took it back. Don't worry about it, Starsk."

"I did?" He frowned.

"Uh-huh." Hutch steered carefully, keeping his eyes on the road. "You don't really blame me for not getting shot. You don't think I'm a drunk. You've forgiven me about Kira. You like my—my costume, and you like being called 'Starsk.'"

"I complained about _that_?"

Hutch shrugged. "Kinda."

"Boy." Starsky shook his head, and gave a low whistle. "I was a real jerk, wasn't I?"

"Now, don't say that about my partner." Hutch cast him a grateful smile.

"Your pirate partner," reminded Starsky. He pulled out his eye patch from a pocket, and held it over one eye, and then hastily put it over his other eye; he'd had it over the other one earlier.

Hutch grinned. "My pirate partner."

"For what it's worth, I am sorry, Hutch."

"I know. Thanks." Pause. "Starsk…"

"Uh huh?" The dark blue eyes turned to regard him warily. "There's more?"

"Well—kinda. You said you were hurting, in your coma. And that you could r-remember me not being there, and—and you took exception to that fact. Was that true?" He risked a glance.

Starsky's face was a study, very inward and quiet, like a man trying to remember a lost dream, or a song he hadn't heard since he was nine years old.

Starsky shook his head. "I—I don't know, Hutch. Most of the time I don't remember anything, but sometimes I think—I was aware. Or I'll dream about it, about bein' there, and bein' able to hear people, but not move." He shook his head and sighed. "I don't know what's true and what's not anymore."

Hutch digested this. "Do you think, if you did know, you'd be angry with me for not being there more? For trying to catch—them?"

"Oh no, Hutch!" Starsky sat up straighter. "Not at all! Because they wanted to kill you, too. They were still comin' after us—and I couldn't do anything, so you hadda do it all. I'm real glad you did."

Hutch nodded. The last of the weight rolled off him. He felt he should say something, but didn't know what. Starsky had relieved his mind, but most of it shouldn't have been necessary, once Hutch knew about the drug.

They drove in silence for several minutes, and then Hutch pulled into a space outside the precinct—the one that always seemed to be open for Starsky's car, but not for Hutch's. "I see you've got your lucky spot still," said Hutch. He turned off the car and handed the keys back. "Thanks, Starsk."

"Anytime. You know I don't mind you driving my cah."

"No, I mean about—"

"I know." A warm hand to his shoulder, and smiling blue eyes looked into his gaze, somehow sad along with the happiness in them. "You—you gotta know, Hutch. You mean the world to me. I don't know how I coulda said all that, and I'm real sorry—but I don't mean it. None of it."

Hutch swallowed, feeling his emotional reserves being depleted further, but somehow, also being filled up again. "Thanks, Starsk," he said huskily, and squeezed Starsky's shoulder in return. "You know I—I think the world of you, too."

"Of course." Starsky drew back, his eyes hooded. He nodded once, arrogant-looking, like a cat who knows he'll always get the cream. "You took care of me when I was recovering—even when I was a grouch. You hadda care about me to do that. And… you got me Chinese food and pizza on the same day!"

"Don't expect that too often." Hutch shook a finger at him, grinning. "It's not good for you, you know."

Starsky smiled. "I know." He got out of the car, slowly, and Hutch got out and walked around to join him. Starsky got almost completely out by the time Hutch arrived, and he just gave him a little help, and then shut the door for him.

Starsky put on his eye-patch. Hutch adjusted his hat. They headed up to the door of the BCPD, at Starsky's pace.

Hutch got the door. They walked inside the spooky atmosphere of the dim and decorated precinct. Starsky took a few steps inside and leaned on his cane, and shouted, "Ahoy there, me hearties! Arr! Where's me booty?"

People clustered around to see their outfits, especially making a fuss over Starsky. He was back on partial duty, but only some days, and not everyone got to see the 'miracle cop' at work.

In the crowd, the two got separated.

Hutch didn't see Starsky close by until a few minutes later, when he was standing by a big fake palm tree in the corner, drinking punch and watching the crowd. Starsky stopped to lean on his cane, and grinned at Hutch. There was a little chocolate around his mouth, and a touch of something red. Hutch rolled his eyes and handed him a handkerchief. "Clean up, hedonist!"

Starsky made a face at Hutch, and then wiped his mouth. He handed the handkerchief back. "You shoulda tied that around your neck," he pointed out. "Woulda looked more cowboy-y."

Hutch shrugged, and twirled the handkerchief up. He tied it around his neck. "Better?"

Starsky squinted, as if judging it very seriously. Then he nodded. "Better. Hey, Hutch, you realize I'm gonna have to stay in character, around everybody else." He grinned wickedly.

"Yeah?" Hutch raised one eyebrow, skeptical of Starsky's 'in-character.' His eye patch was already on the other eye, and his parrot was falling off.

The curly-headed pirate smirked. "I'll probably have to steal your hat. Maybe your lasso, too. I am a pirate, you know."

"Well…" said Hutch, and grinned suddenly. "I'd _give_ you my boots."

Starsky gave him an amazed look, and then laughed. "You remember that?"

Hutch shrugged. "Of course. And I am a cowboy, you know, so…."

"So you'll give me your boots," said Starsky in a small, amazed-sounding voice.

"Only if you want 'em," added Hutch. "Here. Have some punch." He handed Starsky his glass, and the pirate took it, and gulped it to hide his grin.

Starsky gave him one last, broad smile, his eyes warm and lit, and then gave him a slap on the back. "C'mon, cowboy. Let's show these folks how to party."

"Okay." Hutch smiled. He kept his steps a little short, to match Starsky's stride using a cane, and they rejoined the party, side by side.


End file.
